Igneus
by wildskysong
Summary: Latin for 'burning'. A choice changes Eragon for the worse and he finds himself trapped in the darkness, the King's slave. Everyone he loves, save Saphira, is long dead by his hand. Will he live in the dark forever? dark!Eragon, full summ at my profile.
1. Prologue: In Obscurum

**Hi, everyone!! Yes, I know I should be working on Eldunari or UD, but the next chap of Eldy is with my betas and chapter 19 is on the way, and my next UD is also coming along. This fic has been lurking in my head since I started UD, and a few days ago it demanded that it be written. So I, the obliging twit, complied, and this ccame into existence. If you read the summary, then you know what's going on. If you didn't shame on you, go back and read it.**

**This is a very dark fic, because its dark!Eragon, which is rare and DARK (duh). There are lots of mature themes here, including murder, suicide later on, angstness, and a smattering of betrayal and black magic to feed the sadistic side in all of us. So, you have been warned, and if I get any flames that rant about any of the aforementioned topics, I will set duckhunter33 on said flamer, and he doesn't mess around. Clear?**

**Alright, so this was inspired by III: Cold in the Eragon chapter of UD and me watching Revenge of the Sith with my pal. So then I watched the entire saga, over a week- long period (I'm on break, see) and I was startled at how similar Star Wars and the Inheritance Cycle are. I mean, the main protagonist in both (Luke and Eragon) has 1. special powers (magic/the Force). 2. Dumb luck, 3. A relative that's a bad guy (Murtagh/Vader). 4. Said relative spending large amounts of time/energy trying to make them evil/bring them to their leader. 5. Loyal friends/women encouraging them. 6. Both belong to an almost- extinct order of beings (Jedi/Dragon Riders) 7. Absolutely no good/evil conflict in them whatsoever, unless they happen to be battling the bad relative. So I got to thinking, and with my friend/soul sister/other half of my mind, this was born. If Murtagh is Vader, who is Eragon? Most people would say Luke. In fact, on the Inheritance wikia, several parallels are drawn between the two. It's freaky, actually. I, however, have decided to change that. Guess who he is now? Teehee....**

**Alright, enough of my rambling. GO READ!!!!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own the Inheritance Cycle or Star Wars. I am, in the bluntest sense, stealing their characters and issues and mixing them together in my secret labratory, rather like a drug dealer, and then proceeding to impose my madness on others. So no lawsuits, Mr. CP and Mr. Lucas.**

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Igneus

Prologue: In Obscurum (In the Darkness)

Once upon a time-

_(a bad time, a burning time, a time when everything and everyone could go up in flames at any moment, gone forever, lost, snatched, killed)_

-in a land known as Alagaesia-

(_A burning land, a land alight with the flames of war and good and evil, slowly blazing out into nothingness-land)_

-there was a man-

_(A boy, really, young and foolish and prone to all sorts of pain and foolishness and hurting)_

-known as Eragon. He was a hero, a warrior, a Dragon Rider, full of love and compassion-

_(And fear, and hate, and anger, and so much darkness)_

-and goodness. He was the Varden's greatest soldier, the ally of the elves, the man who defied Galbatorix daily and lived to fight on-

(_And struggle on, hate on, sink further and further down into the depths of darkness)_

-so he could free the people. A true hero, they called him. They sang songs about him and his dragon Saphira, songs about his glorious deeds and strength and compassion. Every child knew his name, breathed it into the night, wishing to catch a glimpse of him, the Hero-

_(who carried the darkness, who came closer and closer to toppling each day.)_

-of the people. But then, something happened. On the Burning Plains of Alagaesia, something terrible happened. Red fought blue, and hidden away from the rest of the world by a vast expanse of jagged rock, a secret was revealed.

_(A terrible secret, a secret carrying the darkness and the weight of the world in one simple sentence)_

"

After that, the world began to spiral down, devoured in its own maelstrom of flames and lies. Soldiers who could not be hurt fought on the bloody- soaked plains, dragons that were not dragons roamed the skies. A golden Rider, the last of the ancient order, fell to his death, and the Hero _changed_. Something went wrong, a twist of his goodness, a wound that he could not close, for all of his magic-

_(Because it wasn't black magic, magic that defied the laws of nature, of the world)_

-and strength. The rumors spoke of the Hero's pain, how tortured he was by the death of the golden Rider. He was broken, they said, and alone, truly alone. He began to watch his companions and friends more closely, fiercely defending them. In time, it became evident that he was terrified of losing them, and at last the King had a weakness to exploit.

"_I have your friends, young Shadeslayer, and your pregnant lover. Why don't you come and face me like a man?"_

The secret songs sing of what happened next; a great battle, foul play, an offer, the lure of power and protection, a choice, and then the darkness wins. The Hero, incorruptible, unwavering, loyal to the end, changed sides. Blood paints the fields and mountains crimson, the Varden's blood. The Lady Nasuada dies first, executed publicly in the bustling Uru' baen. It is there that the whispers start, that people began to talk of how cold the Hero was, how he didn't flinch when the Lady cried out in pain and defiance.

"_How could you, Eragon?"_

The noose of darkness tightens, and the Hero slips further away.

"_Roran Stronghammer has opposed my rule long enough. Kill him."_

"_As you wish."_

Stronghammer, the cousin of the Hero, dies in a burst of flames from a blue sword, agony still on his lips, his eyes still focused on his wife, who cowered over her newborn son.

"_Eragon, please."_

"_It was either Roran or Arya."_

"_You monster. Look at what you've become! Don't act like you're sorry!"_

Murtagh was executed publicly as well, his blue eyes cold and filled with pain as he looked at his younger half- brother.

"_Maybe you are the son of Morzan. Brom would have never done such things."_

The Hero's wife, the elf princess Arya, fled her husband one night, knowing that her Eragon, her Hero, was dead and consumed in the burning flames. When he caught up to her, the songwriters say that he begged her to return with him, that he would change his ways, that he loved her and wanted to be with her. No one wishes to sing of the truth, of the torn hearts and agony in the sword that plunged into the body of a pregnant woman, killing her and her child.

"_I though you loved me!"_

"_I did, until you became a monster!"_

At the end of that day, the Hero had lost everyone, except his Saphira, who became as twisted as he was. The darkness took a Hero, a young man of pure heart and innocence, and turned his goodness against itself-

_(A many- headed snake, the darkness, always writing and fighting and lashing out, devouring, devouring, until nothing was left but the snake itself)_

-and destroyed it. The land of Alagaesia wept tears of blood and ash as it burned, slowly, surely, for its child, its precious son, the Hero, had fallen, and the endless night had begun. There was pain, and hurt, and then-

_(No hope but one, only one, in a single egg, stolen years later, and a child)_

_-_burning. Forever…

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**Hmm. Odd, this one. I kinda like it, actually.... huh. Well, Eldunari is my main priority, so this won't be updated frequently. And the chapters might drastically vary in length.... eh. Whatever. So, did you like it? Hate it? Please R&R, I love your feedback!!**

**Oh, and don't worry, this format, while fun to write in, will not be the prevailing format. I'll switch back to the normal soon. Yeah. And duckhunter33, if you read this, don't fret, 'cause I'm going to update as soon as I get the chapter back from my betas. **

**Tata!**

**~WSS**

**Next: Fragmins Memoria: Liber (Fragments of Memory: Child)**

"Are you Eragon?"

"Maybe."

"Liar! You can't be Eragon."

"Why not?"

"Eragon died a long time ago."


	2. Fragmins a Memoria: Liber

**Uh, hi again!! Right, so I am working on Eldy, but this was a quick piece I jotted down last night, and I decided to post it so it doesn't clutter my hard drive and my document manager... yeah.**

**So, thanks to those who reviewed!!! I love reviews, and this is a pet project, so reviews keep it going!!! Yay, reviews!! Love ya guys!!!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own the Inheritance Cycle, and I am not making any money from these stories. It's a labor of love, people. **

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Fragmins a Memoria: Liber (Fragments of Memory: Child)

The tall man strode across the darkened room, his face clearly expressing disdain and disgust at the squalor around him. He stood in a simple house made of rough wood and nails, adorned with simple furniture and dirt floors. He wondered briefly why his mind choose to revisit this place in his dream, this house of pain and filth.

"Who're you?" A child's voice sounds from a corner. The man spun, his hand resting on the pommel of his blue- sheathed blade. A young child sat in the corner, cross-legged, a toy bow in his small, dirt- smeared hands. Framed by messy brown hair and filth, two bright brown eyes gazed solemnly at the man.

"And who are you?" The man retorted, dark anger in his tone. Children should cower when they saw him, they should hide behind their mother's skirts, not sit there and ask impudent questions.

"I think you know." The child's voice was suddenly older, the brown eyes aging in the space of mere moments. There was something familiar about this dirty child, something hauntingly comforting and excruciatingly painful. His words wavered in the air, fire and water, hot and cold, trembling on a knife's edge, teetering above forbidden territory.

"Are you Eragon?" The question slipped from the man's lips, unbidden, unwanted, but true, honest, and laced with both fear and fury. The fire shivered, the blade tipped.

"Maybe." The child smiled radiantly, happy to be recognized.

"Liar! You can't be Eragon." The man's fist tightened on the sword and his voice dropped to a whisper, the sound of a snake hissing a warning before it strikes. Heat spilled from the man, venom to feed the flame.

"Why not?" The Eragon- child asked, still smiling.

The man's whisper grew harsh with rage and hate. "Eragon died a long time ago." The man's eyes darkened. "I killed him."

In a swift motion he drew the blue- steel blade from its sheath, denial cold in his eyes. "I killed Eragon." Fire crackled from the blade, sapphire and hot, burning witout wood. The sword sang forward, a song of blood and fire and death keen on its razor edge. Blood mixed with metal and fire.

"I killed hiim." The man repeated, and brown eyes gleamed dully from his face in the dim light. He walked away.

The child fell.

(Because the truth hurts)

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**Oh my, this is rather disturbing. Very much so, actually. *shudders*. Well, I'm off to bed, so please read and review!! And comment on the creepiness....**

**Yep! The next update might not be for a while.... but reviews might change my mind!!**

**See ya!**

**~WSS**


	3. Act I: Convulsus Lux Lucis

**Wow, so it's been awhile since I've updated this, and no, I haven't forgotten Eldy, but my laptop crashed and I lost Chapters 26-27. I had this; I'm posting it. Review, yes?**

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Act I: Convulsus Lux Lucis (The Shattered Light)

The darkness has always been a part of you, as integral and ingrained as your penchant for asking questions or your bond with Saphira. You cannot be rid of it and it cannot be rid of you. It has been inside you since the moment you were born, even though your mother took you away to protect you from it. It slipped inside you in that darkened room, breathing in the pauses between your mother's quiet groans and your newborn cries. It was there when you breathed air for the first time, when you slept in your mother's arms. The darkness is hereditary, passed down for generations since the first human drew breath.

(It is human nature.)

So when you breathed your first breath, it went in with the sweet, nourishing air, taking root, tethering itself to your heart and soul. It coated your insides with black shadow, as dark as the night, and waited, for the darkness is more patient than the light. Children cannot choose good or evil at first. They are pure, like the water in the rivers, flowing freely in the day and in the night. The darkness in your soul waited, as all darkness does, for your twilight and the death of the day.

(The darkness is more patient than anything, because the night always falls.)

The first time you became aware of the darkness, you had just lost a fight with another village boy and he was mocking you, calling you weak, a bastard. You were only ten and didn't know what that word meant, but the darkness knew, and it came to your aid. Rage was your darkness, and with it you pummeled the other boy until Garrow dragged you away, scolding and cursing. That night, you learned what a bastard was, and you recognized that the darkness was anger, and something to be wary of. But like a cloud drifting across the sunlit sky, the darkness never fully disappeared, only moved out of sight for awhile.

(It only takes one cloud to block the sun.)

You did not encounter it again for many years, for Saphira and Roran and Arya kept it at bay. But over the Burning Plains, facing your brother, knowing he was a murderer and a traitor, your shields faltered and the darkness found a purchase. When you met him again, you held the darkness at bay, because you loved him once, and family should not kill family. But the third time, after he killed Oromis, your teacher, the darkness overtook you and you fought like a monster. That day you learned that darkness was a dangerous ally, and from then on you dreamed of Murtagh's new scars and shuddered.

(The darkness is patient, but it is ferocious when aroused.)

It was not until later in the war, after you learned that Arya was pregnant, that you began to call upon the darkness regularly. It was a form of protection, the best you could offer, because it was patient and fierce and unforgiving. Enemy after enemy fell to your burning blade, and the Varden advanced, in awe of their dragon- like champion. By the time you stood in the King's throne room, filled to the brim with darkness and rage and the desire to protect your unborn child, it was already to late.

(The darkness is tempting and deceptive, always eager to claim a new vessel.)

That day he offered you a way to protect your family, and you took it, and the darkness won, as it always does, because it is always there, and ready to spring and envelope its enemies.

In a way, you are very similar to the King, your new Master. He too traded his humanity for the darkness, not knowing the consequences of such and action. How was he to know that the world would throw itself in turmoil because he declared himself king? And how were you to know that you would lose everything but Saphira to the darkness?

(The darkness is patient, but it takes everything.)

In retrospect, you realize that the darkness was never kind, not like the light you once knew. It took over you, tearing you heart to pieces as your loved ones died one by one. You were a hero once, not the villain, but you lost yourself in the promise of power and eternal glory. After all, the darkness has been with you for so long that you could not distinguish it from the rest of you. And by the time you realized the darkness lied, that it betrayed you, tricked you, hurt you, it was already far too late. You were too far gone, too wrapped up in its coils, its strength. There was (is) no hope for you, the child of darkness, of power, of rage. You, who were once light, now suffer in darkness.

And you deserve it.

(The darkness does not let go.)

Shattered, alone, dark, you prowl the land of Alagaesia. The Empire trembles in your prescence, the villages shake. _As they should_, you think. You are a creature of the darkness, of the flame.

Fire and darkness burn in front of you, hate and destruction the only way forward. Fire and darkness burn behind you, fragments of memory, scraps of happiness, hate, rage, pain. Fire and darkness, all around, all sides, dark and fire, fire and dark, dancing over the remnants of the light, crackling, hissing. It's ironic, really. You know there is no escape, no light, no refuge. You _know_. It has been your destiny, no matter which path you had chosen in life. All led to the same point, to the darkness, to the shattered light.

It is then that you know, accept, and move on. (Because the monster doesn't mourn, he moves on.)

You know, in your charred, blackened heart, that you are trapped, always were trapped, and always will be trapped. You remember, in the dim, bleeding corners of your mind, a lesson from your Master. It brings a twisted smile to your lips.

(All paths burn, Eragon.)

And so it goes.

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	4. Scene I: Urbs a Damno

**Um, wow, so I haven't visited this in a looong time, but on the prompting of Sam, I'm going to update this chatper. This story will be set up sort of like a play; Acts and scenes and interludes. This is the first scene of Act I, which is titled "The Shattered Light." It will all be from Eragon's POV. Cool?**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. I own a laptop and several jars full of tea. **

**Warning: DARK story. Mentions of murder, brutality, and so on. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. **

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Scene I: Urbs a Damno (The City of the Damned)

The earth was hard underneath his feet. It crunched and cracked, the once-soft land baked by the harshness of the unforgiving summer sun and the lack of rain.

It has not rained in the north in ten years. Well, not naturally, of course. The clouds had all been driven to the east and the south—the north was a dried-out husk, a shell of its former self.

Not that Eragon particularly cared. All the inhabitants of the north had either moved on or died, so it was of no particular importance that the mighty forest of Du Weldenvarden was a land of brittle trees and that the towns were dust and weeds blowing in the wind. Occasionally the King and his loyal Riders would create rain, to irrigate the slave-farms, but that was only rarely, when the rivers fell too low.

He and his Master had no use for the north now, and therefore it did not matter.

Saphira stepped down, her talons slicing the baked dirt. She sniffed distastefully. _There is nothing here. _She growled. _This is a city of the dead. _

_We were ordered here none the less. _Eragon pointed out, his fingers resting on the pommel of Brisingr. He too sniffed the air, and only the scent of dust hit his nostrils.

Doru Araeba was ash and bones now.

And yet, Master had seen fit to send his right hand to the wasted island of Vroengard to search. Perhaps there were rebels about? It had to be a matter of importance, because the King rarely sent Eragon out nowadays. He had the Halflings and their half-Riders to do his dirty work, and then there were the new ones, the dragons borne from Saphira and their Riders.

Not that Eragon would complain. It had been far too long since he had the opportunity to stretch his legs and swing his sword—being cooped up in Uru'baen had started to take its toll.

After Saphira had devoured that one duchess in a fit of irritation, the King thought it necessary to send his chief servants to the old city of the Riders, to do whatever the hell needed to be done there.

"_You will know what to do." _The King had said.

Eragon and Saphira warily advanced towards the ruined gates of Doru Araeba. The blue dragon brushed aside a pile of bones with her powerful claws. The bones were small and dragonic. A youngling had died by the gates of Doru Araeba. The pair walked past the bones, and into the city.

It was a miserable place.

In the one hundred and nineteen years since the fall of the Dragon Riders, the city had not been consumed by nature.

The buildings, hewn from stone and trees, had collapsed, worn by the winds and the rain. Everything was crumbling, wrecked, and piles of bones littered the shattered remains of the city.

The scent of dust choked the air, and Eragon hissed at the way it irritated his nose. Saphira sneezed, crackling blue flame scorching a ruined tree-hut and burning to cinders.

_What are we supposed to be looking for? _She snarled. _There is nothing here. _

Eragon privately agreed with her, but he could not return to his Master empty-handed. Together they advanced down what had once been the main street of the Rider's city. Eragon's neck prickled; he felt like he was being watched, and more than once he saw the glimmer of strange eyes in the shadows of crumbled doorways or the flit of a shadow darting in the wrecked alleys.

_We are being watched. _He commented, his hand tightening on his blade.

Saphira bared her teeth hungrily. _By what? _

_We shall find out. _The Rider returned her feral grin. He neither smelled nor heard anything, but his eyes did not deceive him, and he carefully probed out with his mind.

To his faint surprise, several wild, frightened minds fled from his, plunging deep into the shadows. They had a human taste, but also the feel of a wild animal; stupid, non-sentient. There was no magical prowess in their flavor.

_Not a threat. _Eragon dismissed.

_But perhaps lunch. _And Saphira dove to the side, her large body twisting with stunning agility, and her teeth flashed, and she backed out of an alley, a screaming, kicking creature pinned in her jaws.

It was a grotesque thing, with a human head and torso but the lower half of some hoofed creature, a deer or a goat, perhaps. Its face was twisted in terror, but the kind of fear prey has for a predator. The thing had a human face, but it was not human. It had no scent, which proved that it was created by magic.

Saphira tossed her head back and it vanished. _Tastes like goat. _She commented.

Eragon snorted and put the goat-men out of his mind. They were not important. The dragon and the Rider continued on.

New piles of bones began to appear, many of them recent, the bones still yellow, not yet bleached by the sun. They were the bones of fantastic creatures.

Horses with wings. Huge cats with the heads and wings of eagles. Strange beasts, each more wild and fantastical than the next.

_It appears the Riders were fond of experiments. _Saphira rumbled, nudging the bones of a snake-tailed cat.

_It appears so. _Eragon blinked and looked around. _Were they trying to combat Master?_

_I do not know. _

Eragon had heard rumors of the strange imhabitants of Vroengard as a boy, and Galbatorix always alluded to the island as a "place of abnormalities." It was easily conceivable that the old Order, in a desperate attempt to save themselves, created bizarre beings to help defend themselves. The bird-cats looked particularly fierce, with razored claws.

Further and further they went, until, near the center of the city, signs of recent life began to appear. There were scraps of fish and food, discarded stone plates, ash pits where fires had recently burned. A few new graves stood off to the side, in an area that had once belonged to an elf's tree-hut. Kneeling, the Rider read them.

_General Jormundor Stoutheart_

_Leader of the Varden _

_Long Live Freedom_

His grave was followed closely by the next:

_Katrina Swiftdagger_

_Do Not Fear Death_

_It is Not an End_

_But the Beginning _

Eragon rocked back on his heels, and he hissed in anger.

The Varden, the scum of Alagaesia, had been residing in Doru Araeba. They had been living here, the scattered rabble, for months at a time. They had been seen, at the start of winter, near Teirm, and then had lost the Halfling scouts in the Spine.

It had been too much to hope that they would die in the Spine, then. Pity.

_At least they lost their two strongest leaders. _Saphira snorted, smoke billowing from her nostrils.

_Yes. _Eragon said reflectively. Jormundor's death was no surprise; he was old, far too old to spend the long northern winter in a place with little protection from the harsh sea winds. Katrina had been raised in the north, so her death was a little more surprising, but Eragon did not care how she died, just that she was dead.

_With those two dead, the Varden will be hard-pressed to survive much longer. _Eragon murmured. Katrina and Jormundor had been the leaders since the black-skinned Nasuada's death, sixteen years ago.

_Her face was stained with blood and betrayal, and she looked at him with nothing but confusion; not hate or pain or sorrow. _

"_Why?" She asked._

_And his face was made of stone and he turned away. _For her. _His mind whispered, and he heard the blade fall. _

Saphira snorted at the gravestones, and with one swipe of her paw, shattered the rocks. _Let us move on. _She said. _We still have not found what the Master thinks we will find. _

_Very well. _

The pair turned and proceeded through the city of monsters and dead. The great ruin of the Hall of the Riders seemed to be the place where the Varden had spent the most time; ashes were scattered every few feet inside it and several maps were still tacked in place, stained by the weather and worn by age. They were severely outdated maps, of course. The forest of Du Weldenvarden was still colored darkly and the coastal town of Narda was still marked.

_They are low on funds. _Eragon observed.

_Well where would they get them?_

_True. _

They wandered through the hall, deeper and deeper. Several of the rooms had roofs, and Eragon imagined that the Varden, cold and tired, had huddled here in the dead of winter, seeking warmth and protection. In one room, drawings coated the walls. They were done in charcoal, and they were of people and the beasts that lived on Vroengard.

The bird-cat on the wall had fur and feathers, and _gryphon_ was spelled underneath it. The creature Saphira had eaten earlier was labeled _faun_, and there were others, including _hurrok, basilisk, _and _unicorn_. Then came the people.

Katrina was drawn, her face far more lined than Eragon had ever seen it. A bold-faced man with _father _written below him, and then a stout woman with _mother _beneath her aged face. A youth had lived in this room. And then Eragon's eyes fell upon the face of a child.

The boy was fifteen or so, with shaggy hair and a toothy grin. His eyes seemed to spark on the wall, and he was laughing. He was a handsome boy, but for some reason, his name was wiped out. Eragon looked at the drawing and his skin prickled. He brushed it aside, and looked down.

Below the drawing, one of the stones had been pulled away, leaving a niche. Eragon crouched and peered inside it; his eyes fell upon a folded piece of parchment. He opened it, and snarled in rage, heat oozing from his enraged body.

It was a map of Uru'baen, recent and completely detailed. A passage was lined heavily in red berry juice, and Eragon recognized it at once as one of the many tunnels that led in and out of the castle, one of many that he and his Master had not been able to close. This particular passage led to the throne room.

The Varden was going after an egg.

And underneath the map, written in the charcoal handwriting of the owner of the room, was this:

_Catch us if you can, you damned traitor! _

The Varden had known that Eragon was coming. They had known he was coming and had lit out before he and Saphira had arrived. And now… now they were going to steal the eggs that Saphira and her offspring had so carefully laid and built up.

Was this what Galbatorix wanted his servants to find? Did he know already? Was he expecting it?

The map caught fire, and Eragon tilted his head back. He howled, his magic spilling through the ruined Hall, blowing stone and dust everywhere, and the black rage washed over the city of the damned.

This meant war.

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**So do you like it? This Eragon is different. He's older, darker, and very, very twisted. **

**Review, and tell me what you think!!**

**~WSS**


	5. Scene II: Exercitus Damnatorum

**I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THE 11 MONTH WAIT GUYS. omg I'm beating myself up over here. :( I am a bad bad easily sidetracked person. **

**Er, speaking of easily sidetracked, hopefully I'll have Edoc'sil updated soon. I am working on it, I'm just lacking inspiration. Again. Damnit. **

**So this might get confusing. If you have any questions, PM or drop a review or whatever! **

**Disclaimer: Inheritance is not mine. **

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Scene II: Exercitus Damnatorum (The Host of the Damned)

"Where is he taking the eggs?"

"I don't know!" The man screamed, arching against the bonds restraining him. "I don't know, I don't know!"

Eragon tsked, almost pityingly. "Come now," he said. "I know that you know. The thief is your _brother_, Master Ockramsson. I'm sure he told you _something._" With a lazy flick of his sword, he drew a vertical red line down the captive's chest, admiring the way the blood gleamed stickily in the half-light. The man howled in agony.

"I don't know!" He sobbed. "I don't know, I don't know…"

Hissing in anger, Eragon circled the bound man. He and Saphira had, despite their best efforts, returned a little too late to Uru'baen. The Varden's thief had already escaped, taking three dragon eggs with him.

The palace was in an uproar and Galbatorix was furious; he had known the Varden had been in Doru Araeba, but he had expected them to still be there, and had been away in Dras Leona when the thief came to steal the eggs. That was the sole reason the thief had escaped—the King had left the safety of the palace in the hands of his magicians.

Those same magicians were "answering" to the King now. Eragon hoped their screams would stop before too long. If he was to hunt down the thief, he wanted to be well-rested.

The man in front of him was undoubtedly guilty of betraying his Empire. Eragon could smell it on him, that harsh tang of fear and sweat that set his teeth on edge and made the pit in his chest stutter with excitement.

Brisingr hummed in the Rider's hand. Soon.

Through complex bits of magic, Eragon and Saphira had learned the name of the thief; Tamar Darkfingers, youngest son of Ockram Halousson. Ockram had been one of the Empire's chief swordsmiths, a powerful, wealthy man, though he had died years ago. Tamar had run off while Ockram other two sons, Cordon and Matthias, had taken over their father's business. It was Cordon who sat in the interrogation chamber now, bound and bleeding. His brother Matthias had turned him in, claiming that the eldest brother knew of Tamar's whereabouts.

And so the poor bastard Cordon was here, bound, bleeding, slated for death, and so very guilty that the air stank with it.

Nothing could save his life, at this point.

"You say you don't know." Sheathing Brisingr, Eragon crouched in front of the man, his dark brown eyes solemn, empty.

Cordon whimpered in agony and fear.

"Your mouth says that you don't know," Eragon smiled, and the man recoiled for he saw nothing there, no feeling or empathy or human compassion. Eragon was a pit, all good emotions swallowed, devoured, the darkness inside his eyes sucking in all the light.

"But your eyes…"

Cordon closed those guilty things, almost as if shutting his eyes could rid him of the horrible stare that sliced into his soul.

"Your eyes tell me that you do." Almost gently, Eragon rested a hand on Cordon's sweat-soaked hair. "Come now," he said. "If you tell me, you will not be killed. You will be sentenced to life in slavery, yes, but that is preferable to death…"

Gulping frantically, Cordon looked at Eragon for several long, desperate seconds. "He mentioned Kuasta," he gasped, finally defeated. "He's meeting someone at Kuasta, someone who will take the eggs to the Varden."

Eragon smiled wider and wicked glee danced in his eyes. "Very good," he said, removing his hand. "You see? That was not so hard, now was it?"

Cordon looked pleadingly up at his captor.

"Guard!" Eragon shouted, bringing one of the White Guardsmen running. The Rider gestured at the bound man. "Untie him," he ordered, gesturing at the bound, helpless man. "Bring him something to eat and drink. I will return shortly."

Confused but too frightened to voice it, the Guardsman nodded and set about freeing Cordon. Disinterested, Eragon stalked through the dungeons, prowling up the palace, scattering servants and noblemen alike. Any and all feared the dark Rider—he had a reputation for being vicious and unforgiving, and nobles were his favorite prey.

Once he reached the throne room, he waited. _Master, h_e called.

_Enter. _

Opening the large gilded door was too bothersome—the smaller, almost invisible side door was preferable, and within moments Eragon was inside the grand throne room, kneeling before the King of Alagaesia.

The huge window that took up the entire west wall was covered by its heavy velvet curtain today so the room was cast deep in shadow. The map of Alagaesia on the east wall was dark, but the Rider could still clearly see the great brown stretch of the north where forests and farmland had once been. Now there were the slave farms where elves toiled, attempting to coax food from the parched soil.

To the south was the blackened remnant of Surda, now slaveland where the dwarves labored, mining gold, silver, and iron day and night. The Hadrac desert had grown, extending in all directions. It was a mass grave, the sands alternately hiding and revealing the bleaching bones of Urgals.

Teirm was no more, a skeletal hull of what it had been. Human slaves where kept there, sent out to fish or build or mine from the iron-rich rock around them.

In the sixteen years since the end of the Rider War, the only place in Alagaesia that hadn't suffered was the center—Uru'baen, Dras Leona, Belatona and the other smaller towns and villages that had flourished and grown up around the three large cities. The land was harsher now, more unforgiving, but the people were stronger, tougher, and almost completely loyal to their King and his Riders.

"You have found something, Eragon." Galbatorix did not turn to face his servant. Through lowered lashes Eragon could see his shadowy shape slumped in the glittering throne. The deep shade hid his expression, but the Rider knew his Master's brow was furrowed and his face was twisted into a frown.

Displeasure radiated from the man like light from the sun.

"Master," Eragon began. "I interrogated the thief's brother, Cordon the swordsmith—"

"Son of old Ockram?" The King interrupted.

"Yes."

"If he was still alive, he would run the boy through himself," Galbatorix said darkly. "Ockram was loyal to the Empire down to his very bones. Tell me, which of his sons betrayed us? Or was it one of his daughters?"

"The youngest son, Tamar."

Galbatorix nodded. "The one they call Darkfingers?"

"Yes."

"Continue."

"I interrogated Cordon Ockramsson and he, after a little pain, confessed that he knew of the plot to steal from you—"

"From us," Galbatorix corrected gently. "This is not just my Empire, my friend. The eggs that were stolen were Saphira's, after all."

Eragon nodded deeply. "Cordon knew of the plot to steal from _us_," he continued, feeling the familiar rush of pleasure he felt whenever Galbatorix reminded him that he was part of the glorious Empire too. "He told me that Tamar was planning to flee with the eggs to Kuasta to hand them over to the Varden."

"Kuasta?" Galbatorix murmured, finally rising from his throne to pace the room, his robes swirling around him. "That city of superstitious fools? It is a cesspool of merchants, traders, and soldiers. Why didn't he choose one of the smaller towns, like Feinster?"

Eragon shrugged. "Kuasta has grown over the last decade, Master. It is large enough that a stranger could walk in completely undetected but close enough to the wilderness that the rebels could hide until the time was right."

The King made a sound of agreement. "Very well," he said. "My friend, I want you to send Tariku and his half-Riders to Kuasta. Show them Tamar's face, have them watch for him. When they find him, I want them to follow him to the Varden."

"Do you want them killed?"

Darkness seemed to swell in the room, pressing heavy and black and bitter on Eragon's tongue. When he was younger, he used to flinch from it, hating the feel of it sliding across his skin. Now he leaned into it, sucking it in, letting it wrap its black fingers around him like an old friend.

"No," said Galbatorix. "Have their hamstrings cut and their necks Collared. I want all of them brought here, to us, for public execution."

Eragon, still kneeling, bowed as best as he was able. "And me, Master?" He asked, trying to squash the feelings of irrational anger at Tariku for being sent instead of himself.

"Ah, my friend, I can feel your anger," Galbatorix said gently. "Come, stand up. You musn't be upset, Eragon. I am not slighting you or doubting in your abilities. If I sent _you_, I would only have to send you. As it is, I need your talents elsewhere."

Feeling better, Eragon stood at attention and watched his Master pace back and forth through the room.

"Send Ezera to Dras Leona and Uraziel to Belatona," the King instructed. "Iskierka to Feinster and Ka to Surda. The governors need to be warned that the Varden has surfaced again."

"It will be done."

"And you, my faithful friend, must return to Doru Araeba."

Instantly Eragon felt like protesting, but the King cut him off.

"Don't be angry," he said. "As I said before, I need your specific set of talents. Out of all my servants, only you have elf training. Doru Araeba is a pit of magic and experiments; the Riders did many things there in their last desperate months, and the Varden has been living there for some time. I need you to use your elf-talents to find everything they did. Records they kept, things they saw, things they took."

"You think the Varden found a weapon there," Eragon said slowly. "Something they could use against us."

"Correct. I do not know what the old Order did in its last months, and after they were defeated, I myself could not spend enough time there to uncover its mysteries, nor did I think of sending my Forsworn to search for me. It was only recently that I thought of this possible weapon. It is an error on my part."

A shudder passed down Eragon's spine. If his Master was worried, what did that mean for the rest of the Empire?

"Do you think the Varden is a threat?"

The King waved a dismissive hand. "An annoyance at best. Under Nasuada, the Varden had a host of twenty thousand at its peak. This Varden cannot have more than a thousand members, probably less. Doru Araeba could not house more than that. It is a barren wasteland—all the natural game has fled and the abominations the Riders created are not meant for eating. Fish could sustain them, but in all likelihood the Varden sent boats to Alagaesia to hunt for game."

"There is not much in the north," Eragon muttered.

"Exactly," said the King. "The goat-men you told me about could have been used for food, but I cannot see the Varden eating something with a human face. Perhaps they hunted the cat-birds or the winged horses, but as I said, creatures created by magic are not meant to be used as food."

"How long should I remain in Doru Araeba?"

"A month," Galbatorix ordered. "Use your skills. Plumb its secrets. Find what the Varden took. Then report to me at the start of winter."

Eragon bowed deeply. "Yes, Master."

"Good." The King waved his hand. "Be gone. Pass my orders onto Tariku and the other Riders."

Bowing again, Eragon backed out of the throne room. The moment he stepped into the hallway, the dark power slipped away, leaving him aching and missing its steady comfort.

_That does not matter, _he thought to himself. _I have work to do. _

Determined, the lead Rider set off down the hall, navigating his way through the maze-like palace. Fortunately, it had not changed much in the sixteen years of Eragon's service. At one point the city had been sinking and the palace with it, but with a full host of Riders at his command, stopping it was no challenge.

Eragon smirked a bit, feeling the sheer _power _of all the King's servants pulsing in the air as he got closer and closer to the dragonhold.

Sixteen years had been more than enough time to rebuild the Dragon Riders. For the first few years, it had only been Eragon and the Halflings, the monstrous half-Fanghur, half-dragon creations that lived through the energies of Eldunarí pushed in their chests.

Soon, though, Saphira's children began to find Riders, and within a decade, the new Order of ten was born. Saphira had laid somewhere near thirty eggs, and nine of them had hatched, each and every one loyal to Galbatorix.

They were the strongest in the Empire, the pride of Uru'baen, and Eragon was their leader, fierce and fearless and completely devoted to his Master.

The only drawback was that the dragonhold, with eleven dragons and thirteen Halflings in it, was growing a bit cramped.

The great door, almost as large as that of the King's throne room, was already open, and Eragon, gathering his power and control around him like a cloak, stepped into the noisy cave and waited.

Shruikan slept in his typical position in the very center, his huge black body coiled neatly.

Saphira was not too far from him, her blue eyes sharp and calculating as she rested her head on her forepaws. She felt his power and bared her teeth happily, drinking it in.

Gathered loosely around the oldest two were the rest of the dragons, Saphira's children. They were red, green, yellow, blue, black, purple, indigo, orange, and silver, all of varying sizes. Most of their Riders were gathered around the edges, talking amongst each other, civil, for once.

The Halflings, smaller than every dragon except Esca, the youngest, squabbled amongst themselves in their shrill voices, hissing and bickering over scraps of meat, their eyes lurid and their chests sparkling.

Eragon vaguely remembered the first time he had seen the beasts, alone in the shell of his childhood home. He had been shocked and terrified then, frightened of the bizarre, unnatural demons.

Now, though, he was just annoyed by their antics. They were weak compared to him, their power like a gentle breeze to his raging hurricane. They were tools, pets, experiments, nothing more.

The half-Riders were also sitting against the walls, watching their beasts warily, making sure none of them, in a fit of wild rage, wounded another.

The problem with the Halflings was that they were, first and foremost, Fanghur, wild, non-sentient beings ruled completely by their base needs. The Eldunarí that were shoved in their chests gave them enough of a dragon's intelligence and knowledge that they were useful, but even with the Eldunarí the creatures were prone to in-fighting and random acts of violence.

Eragon strode through these writhing, hissing, growling creatures and came to stand next to Saphira, resting a gloved hand on her scales.

_Would you do the honors? _He asked.

She hummed darkly. _With pleasure. _Tilting her sapphire head back, she drew in a great deep breath and _roared_, the very sound shaking the dragonhold to its core. Blue crackling flame shot high into the air, punching out against the clouded sky and her tail lashed the air, making it hiss.

Every head turned sharply to look at her, and she growled.

_They fear me, _she confided to Eragon. _Can't you smell it? _

Eragon allowed a smirk to lift the corner of his mouth. _Yes, _he replied. _I can. _

"What are your commands, sir?" A young man, brown-haired and sharp-eyed, standing next to a glittering silver dragon, bowed deeply to Eragon.

"Rise, Ezera," Eragon rumbled. "Look me in the eye."

Ezera did as he was commanded, looking his leader straight in the eye. He was an Uru'baen-born lad, only eighteen, and his dragon, Pillan, was the first of Saphira's children to hatch, fourteen years ago when Ezera was just a little boy.

Eragon had been there at the hatching, and from that moment he made the boy his, binding him, molding him, teaching him to serve the Master with all his being.

Ezera was a good Rider, and a good servant.

"Your orders?"

"Patience, my friend," Eragon soothed. "I shall get to you and your comrades in a moment. First, Tariku!"

From the wall, a tall, dark-skinned man with billowing robes and sharp features rose and moved to stand in front of Eragon. Tariku-no-Nashuwar had been a warlord of one of the wandering tribes of the south. His tribe had been at war with another and it had been defeated and cast down, leaving Tariku a bitter wandering warrior.

Galbatorix had found him using the Eldunarí of Brynhildr Thunder-eater, a fierce dragoness of the Warriors, a secret group of fighters whose mission was to destroy Urgal villages. Brynhildr's Heart of Hearts had been one of the King's favorites, and when her Eldunarí was planted into a Fanghur, it was the first to survive and become a Halfling.

Tariku was the only living descendant of Brynhildr's Rider, and as such he was the best candidate to bond and control the Fanghur that used her power. He was the unofficial leader of the half-Riders, and their loyalty was to him, at least for now.

Eragon hated Tariku. Perhaps he was biased, but the former tribesman was a repulsive creature. He was proud and vain and simpering, groveling at the King to curry favor and subtly trying to undermine Eragon's position as Galbatorix's right hand at any possible opportunity.

The lead Rider dearly wished that Tariku would fall out of favor so he could kill the scum and be rid of him for good.

"Yes, _sir?_" The extra emphasis on "sir" did not escape Eragon's notice. Tariku was subtly mocking him.

His lip curled.

"You are to take the half-Riders to Kuasta," Eragon ordered. "Set up a perimeter and hide yourselves. Do not let anyone see you."

"What are we looking for?" Tariku asked lazily, scratching the scar that adorned his nose.

Eragon was visited by the powerful urge to carve a new one _through his throat. _

"This man," he said, and easily blew past the loose barriers surrounding the man's mind. He shoved the image of Tamar Darkfingers into Tariku's mind roughly, enjoying the way the man winced. "He is called Tamar Darkfingers, and it is he who stole from us."

Saphira snarled angrily and the rest of the dragons took up the sound, snarling deep in their throats. Shruikan watched impassively.

"Can I kill him?"

"No," Eragon said in the ancient language. "You are to watch him and follow him to the Varden. Capture them, cut their hamstrings, Collar them, and bring them back. Do _not _let anything happen to the eggs."

Tariku shifted, standing taller. "I won't," he sneered. Pride rolled from him in waves. "Tell me, _Rider_, does the Master find you incapable of doing this? Would you rain your unholy fury down on all of Kuasta and wipe them all out or just let the thief slip through your fingers?"

Before Tariku could react, Eragon shot forward, drawing Brisingr in a swirl of blue. The Rider hit the taller man, shoving him back, and Tariku howled and toppled to the floor, flailing as the Rider settled on top of him.

Eragon coldly pressed the blade to the man's throat and leaned in so only Tariku could hear him.

"You are very lucky," he said lowly. "That Master favors you, otherwise I would gut you where you stand and hang you with your entrails. You would do well to remember, Tariku, that _I _am the Rider here. You are just a pale imitation, and I could kill you and Master would let me."

Tariku made a desperate choking sound, clawing feebly at the stronger man.

"Remember this, half-Rider. I am Master's right hand, his chosen. When I speak, I speak for him, and disrespecting _me_ is also disrespecting _him_.

Tariku's dark eyes widened fractionally. Disrespecting Galbatorix was death.

"Now apologize," Eragon growled, his power humming, Brisingr biting into Tariku's throat lightly, drawing a fine crimson line.

"I am sorry," the man wheezed.

Eragon pressed harder.

"_Sir."_

"Good." The lead Rider stood up, leaving Tariku heaving on the floor. Reaching out, he dove into the minds of all the half-Riders, enjoying the taste of their fear.

"If this man speaks ill of myself or of Master while on the mission, kill him. If Tamar escapes, hamstring him; Tariku will take the thief's place before out Master for his failure."

"Yes, sir!" They shouted as one, fear in their eyes.

Saphira growled darkly. _That was fun, _she commented. _Pity we can't kill the pest ourselves. _

_Pity, _Eragon agreed. He shook slightly, rage a harsh taste in his mouth. _I _should _kill him. He steps out of his place. _

_Master would be angry, _Saphira said. _We do not want to fall out of favor, and sooner or later, Tariku will fail and Galbatorix will let us feast on his heart. _

Eragon smiled tightly, his blood bubbling in his ears. _Yes, _he murmured. _Let's hope it will be sooner rather than later. _

The half-Riders retreated, pressing themselves against the walls of the hold, their heads bowed and the Halflings silent.

They understood that they were to be quiet or face Brisingr.

"Ezera," Eragon said softly, sounding far gentler than he felt.

"Sir," Ezera replied steadily, his face impassive and blank. Eragon had trained him well.

"You are to go to Dras Leona," the leader said. "Inform the governor that the Varden has made an appearance and that he should take appropriate measures. Oversee the construction of some new defenses and interrogate anyone they have in the prisons suspected of rebellious activities."

Ezera bowed. "Yes, sir," he said sharply. "How long should I remain?"

"No more than two weeks," Eragon replied.

Ezera bowed again and Pillan dipped his great silver head.

_We will honor you and the Empire_, he said.

_May the wind rise beneath your wings, my son. _Saphira was fonder of Pillan than any of her other children, and she stood to touch noses with him briefly.

"Uraziel," Eragon said.

A stout tanned man with wild eyes and rough hands bowed. "Sir," he said hoarsely. Uraziel had been a fisherman's son, doomed to follow his father to the seas every day of his life until thirteen years ago, when Galbatorix found him and had him touch an egg.

A dragon had hatched and Uraziel became the second to join the new Order.

His dragon Aislin was the color of sunshine and dainty-looking, but long-fanged and fierce, a demon in aerial combat.

"You are to go to Belatona for the same reason," Eragon ordered. "Inform the governor, see to the creation of new defenses, and interrogate prisoners."

"Yes, sir," Uraziel said in that same hoarse voice.

Aislin bowed her head, her yellow scales flashing. _We will bring honor to you and the Empire, _she said respectfully, using Pillan's words.

_May the wind rise beneath your wings, my daughter. _Saphira touched her nose to Aislin's as well.

"Iskierka and Ka," Eragon called, and two women, one small and thin, one tall and strong, stepped up.

Iskierka was also of Uru'baen. She had been twenty when she had touched an egg eight years ago, and she had served loyally ever since. Her dragon Mo was red and stout, like Thorn had been.

Ka was from Surda. She had been taken as a prisoner as the country burned and touching an egg had been an accident, but since then she had proved her loyalty a hundred times over, putting down a Surdan rebellion five years ago with terrible determination. Her dragon Ganya was black like her sire, inky and slender.

"Iskierka, you are to go to Feinster. Ka, you are to go to Surda. Your orders are the same as Uraziel's and Ezera's."

The two women and their dragons bowed deeply.

"Good." Eragon and Saphira circled the Riders, watching them, searching for any signs of fear. Only Ezera watched them back, his eyes bright and quick. He was learning, observing their behavior to better replicate it.

Eragon felt a rush of twisted affection for the boy. He was so _pathetic_.

"The rest of you will continue as you normally do," he continued, still pacing. "Except for you, Leander. You and Esca are to report to the northern courtyard tomorrow at noon. You are the youngest of us, and therefore the weakest. If there is a chance, however slim, of the Varden fighting again, we must teach you."

The nervous young man, younger even than Ezera, nodded. Leander was a boy from the northernmost villages, only fifteen. He was something of a wild thing, wary, untamed, and easily startled.

His dragon Esca was smaller than any of them, barely six months old. His flame had come in only two weeks ago and he was nervous just like his Rider, a jumpy, easily spooked creature. His scales were orange, the color of flame, and so far he had shown no particular talent in any form of combat.

Leander and Esca were both thoroughly average.

Eragon planned to fix that.

Leander bowed nervously. "As you wish," he muttered. His little dragon did the same, bowing his head before shrinking back into the shadows as though they would hide him.

_Was I ever that young? _Eragon wondered, and then chased the thought from his head.

"Good," he rumbled, addressing all the Riders and half-Riders. "You are dismissed."

They all bowed hastily and went about preparing for their various missions and Eragon leaned against Saphira's warm solid shoulder.

_Tariku is up to no good, _she growled thoughtfully, her tail swishing. _He's planning something. _

_I shall bring it to Master's attention. _The lead Rider tightened his grip on Brisingr, imaging new and bloody ways to kill the former tribesmen. _I must go. I am needed in the dungeons. _

Saphira bared her teeth. _Very well, _she said. _I will watch these ones. Perhaps the threat of me eating them will discourage any rebellion. _

_Good girl, _Eragon chuckled.

She blew a tiny stream of flame at him. _Have fun, _she said. _Who are you torturing today?_

_The thief's brother. _

_I thought you were going to let him live?_

_And I am. _

The dragoness snarled in delight. _Ah, _she hummed. _I see. Do try not to come back smelling of blood. It makes me hungry. _

_Of course. _

The Rider patted her scales once, fondly, before striding through the open doors and down into the bowels of the palace, his hunger swirling around his heels.

The dungeons were his favorite part of the castle. Dimly-lit, damp, full of shadow, he could literally be anyone here, a hero, a monster, a savior, a demon.

It was _power_.

Nodding to the guards, Eragon pushed open the door to Cordon Ockramsson's new cell. The confused man jerked up, alarmed.

"M-m-master Rider," he stammered. "I have told you everything I know."

"Oh, I don't think so, Cordon." Eragon kept his voice pleasant, warm, and full of false promises. Brisingr scraped along the ground, screeching dully, sending up a shower of blue-white sparks.

"Now, Cordon," he continued. "Surely you've heard of the greatest power of the Riders? The ability to read minds?"

"Y-yes, of course," the man said, cowering against the wall. "We have all heard and admired your strength and magics."

"Lies," Eragon chided. "You are afraid of it, you _hate _it. But that is understandable, because you know that with this power, I can crush you like a cockroach."

Cordon let out a low, soft moan.

"Perhaps you wonders," the Rider plowed on, seemingly oblivious to Cordon's discomfort. "Why I did not use this power earlier, why I tortured you physically when breaking your mind like an egg would have been so much faster.

"Here's why, Cordon son of Ockram; physical torture weakens the mind. It makes you frightened, wounded, _terrified_, and your poor little mind becomes as unprotected as a child's." Eragon stopped his pacing and leaned in suddenly, grabbing a fistful of the terrified man's hair, yanking his chin up.

"You said I'd go free!" Cordon wailed.

Eragon smiled sharp and vicious. "I said you'd _live_." And he dove into the man's mind, tearing into his brain like wolves into a deer.

Cordon's anguished screams echoed all the wall through the castle, all the way up to Galbatorix, who threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

**So long... Review, y/y?**

**:D**

**~WSS**


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